“Are you... quite well?”
“Of course I am.” He stuffed the paper into the envelope, then handed it to me. “Would you be so good as to send this out? I am somewhat tired. Then we shall eat.” He went back to the large overstuffed chair, again putting his feet up on the ottoman.
“You are certain you are well?”
“Never better.” His eyelids seemed to have grown quite heavy; he could not keep his eyes open all the way. His head swayed sideways, rested upon the high, curving chair arm; his eyes closed; and he was asleep.
I smiled and put an afghan throw over him. He was breathing heavily and even in sleep appeared pale and exhausted. I did as he requested and took his note to the telegraph office. The mysterious message made little sense to me. I also sent a brief note to Michelle, telling her that I loved her and wished to speak with her as soon as I returned to London.
The next morning I kept the officious hotel maids from Holmes’s room. He did not awake until around noon, at which time he joined me for lunch. He had bathed, shaved, and put on clean clothes, and he looked better than he had in some weeks. His appetite at lunch impressed me and the waiter, but after all, he was making up for two days’ fast. After he had devoured several small French pastries by way of dessert, we departed for the Palais Garnier.
The final rehearsals for Faust were taking place, and Christine Daaé was on stage as Marguerite. She wore a peasant costume: crisscrossed lacing drawing tight the scarlet bodice, a copious skirt, and a blonde wig with two long plaits. Carlos Fontana was Faust; he must have enjoyed, for once, having a soprano shorter than himself. The orchestra played in the pit. The Viscount sat at the rear of the auditorium, no doubt wishing to protect his sensitive ears. A few seats away sat the Persian, then off to the side was the small pale man Holmes had asked me about.
The Viscount rose to greet us. “Ah, Monsieur Holmes, how good to see you! Let us go outside where we can talk in peace.”
We went out to a landing of the great stairway. With no other people present, one could see the pale hues of all the marble: cream, gray, pink, yellowish or brown. Our voices echoed faintly as we spoke, drifting upward to the murals five stories above.
“Monsieur Holmes, you have been most helpful, but I shall no longer need your assistance. Christine has agreed to be my wife, and we shall be leaving Paris shortly after Saturday’s performance.”
“Let me offer you my congratulations, Monsieur le Vicomte.” Although faint, I heard the irony in Holmes’s voice.
“Thank you.” The Viscount’s smile was smug. “You have received your check, have you not?”
“I have. Most generous.”
“As I said, I always reward my friends. Very well, then...”
I knew a dismissal when I heard one, but Holmes continued to smile. “Are you not the least bit apprehensive about Saturday’s performance? I do not mean to worry you, but Carlotta also challenged the Phantom with, as we know, tragic results.”
“You need not concern yourself, Monsieur Holmes. Precautions are being taken.”
“No doubt, Monsieur. I am sure the Persian and the police will do an admirable job.”
The Viscount’s smile vanished, and he took half a step back. “How the devil do you know about that?”
“Come now, Monsieur. One need not be the world’s greatest consulting detective to discern the obvious. Well, I wish you luck. You have chosen your allies, and now the consequences of that choice must rest upon you and you alone. Come, Henry, we must see the managers.”
The Viscount’s smooth, youthful brow was furrowed with lines of worry, his eyes following us as we went up the stairs.
“That insufferable ass,” I murmured when we were out of hearing. “Who was that small man seated in the stalls near the Persian?”
“That was Mifroid, Superintendant of the French police, and a worthy accomplice for the Viscount and the Persian. My friend François le Villard, another member of the police force, has told me all about him. Mifroid is all cunning and ambition, with minimal intelligence.”
We had come to the managers’ office, and Holmes knocked at the door. Richard’s gruff voice beckoned us to enter. The two men were behind the desk; as usual Moncharmin was seated while Richard stood. Moncharmin’s large round eye peered at us through the monocle lens.
“Cigar?” Richard asked. We shook our heads. Richard lit his cigar while we sat. Holmes’s nostrils flared disdainfully at the odor.
“Monsieur Holmes, we are grateful for your assistance in this matter of the ghost, but...” Moncharmin’s voice grew weak, and he glanced at Richard, beseeching aid. Richard exhaled cigar smoke and made ready to speak, but Holmes was first.
“You feel that my distinguished services are no longer required.”
Moncharmin went very pale; one would have thought he had actually seen the Ghost, while Richard’s front of boisterous good humor fell away.
“You know?” Moncharmin whispered.
“Come now, it is hardly mysterious. A thousand francs a day is a considerable sum, and your patience has worn thin. Rely on Monsieur Mifroid, if you wish. I hear he is rather obtuse, but it is not my way to argue the worth of my services. I shall send you my final bill, and we shall, I trust, part on good terms.”
Moncharmin nodded eagerly. “Even so, even so.”
“Would you be so kind as to humor one final request? Henry and I would like to be backstage during the performance of Faust. If you would write us a letter of admission...”
Moncharmin fumbled for a piece of paper. “Yes, yes, of course.”
Richard eyed us suspiciously. He took the cigar from his mouth. “It is likely to be rather... crowded on opening night.”
“Swarming with visitors and policemen, I suppose?” Moncharmin’s monocle popped from his eye. Holmes continued: “We shall stay out of the way, I promise you. Having followed Mademoiselle Daaé’s career thus far, we are anxious to see her Marguerite firsthand.”
Richard stared at Moncharmin, who said weakly, “I see no harm.” Moncharmin scribbled furiously, blew on the ink, then folded the paper and handed it to Holmes. “Once again, Monsieur Holmes, let me thank you on behalf of the entire Opera management and staff for your invaluable assistance in this unpleasant business. We may have had our disagreements, but...”
“Yes, yes–a pleasure, gentlemen, a pleasure. I am sorry to rush off, but I have other important business.” He whirled about, hat in hand, then paused. “One last question, gentlemen, if you please. Are all your conferences held in this room?”
Moncharmin and Richard eyed each other. “Yes,” Richard said.
“Including your discussions with Mifroid and his friends?”
Richard frowned, but Moncharmin nodded. “These are our offices. All our business is conducted here.”
Holmes smiled. “I am glad to hear it. Good day.”
Once we were outside, he shook his head. “These people are such fools, such utter buffoons. They are dealing with a specter who calls himself the Phantom of the Opera and who appears to know their every thought, and it never occurs to them...”
We were walking along the grand foyer, the Opera opulence all about us, when we heard footsteps behind us, their clatter loud in the vast hallway.
We turned and saw Madame Giry advancing toward us, her face quite red. “Monsieur Holmes!” she cried. “Monsieur Holmes!” She wore the usual black dress and a ghastly bonnet which appeared to have been constructed of crow remnants. I reflected again that the bustle was the worst possible style for a heavy, matronly woman such as she.
Holmes smiled, obviously happier to see her than the Viscount or the managers. “Bonjour, Madame Giry. How are you today?”
“Monsieur Holmes, it is an outrage–a disgrace! They are scheming, all of them, to capture him, our Ghost! Of course, it is foolish because one can never catch a ghost, but it is so–so rude to attempt it! Those nasty little worms–the Viscount and the policeman–and that filthy Persian! Have you noticed
how dark and sinister his face–and that scar? You can never trust a foreigner, I always say, except perhaps the English, and of course you speak French so well that you are not truly a foreigner. Anyway, one of the carpenters overheard them. They are planning to trap the Phantom. He will come for Christine, and then... Oh, Monsieur Holmes, what is to be done? What is to be done?”
“Calm yourself, Madame, please calm yourself. As you yourself said, how can one catch a ghost, a specter? I know all about this little enterprise, and believe me, it is doomed to fail.”
Madame Giry opened her mouth, then froze for a few seconds. “You know all about it?”
“Yes. Besides, you forget one thing, Madame. The Ghost, being bodiless, can go anywhere and hear anything. I am certain he, too, knows all the details of this ill-conceived conspiracy.”
Madame Giry nodded thoughtfully. “True. That had not occurred to me. The Ghost must know.”
“The Ghost is much wiser and cleverer than these men. Do not worry, Madame Giry. Everything will turn out fine. The Ghost will not be trapped.”
Puffing out her cheeks, she gave a great sigh. “I am so glad. The Ghost has been very good to me, Monsieur Holmes. Didn’t I tell you that he always leaves me a tip in his box?”
“You did, Madame.”
“I would not want anything bad to happen to him.”
“Nor would I. Rest assured, I have his interests and yours at heart.”
She gave another massive sigh, and her face was less red. “Oh, I am relieved, Monsieur. I was so worried. Ever since they dismissed me and refused to pay the Ghost–things were different under the old managers, I can tell you. They were not so pompous as Monsieur Moncharmin or so haughty as Monsieur Richard. They appreciated my services, and they knew better than to trifle with the Ghost. They respected him.”
“That was wise. Tell me one thing, do you think Christine Daaé knows about this plan to catch the Ghost?”
“Oh no, Monsieur Holmes! She would never be a party to such mischief.”
“She was not present during the meeting the carpenter mentioned?”
“No, no–he did not see her. In fact he mentioned that it was odd for the Viscount to be by himself without Mademoiselle Daaé clinging to him. He laughed when he said that, and I warned him to watch his tongue or I’d give him a good cuff on the head, the dirty lout.”
Holmes gently put his hand on her shoulder. “Do not worry, Madame Giry. I have matters well in hand. No one will harm the Ghost.”
“Merci beaucoup, Monsieur Holmes! You are such a gentleman. Everything they say about you in the papers is true!”
Holmes laughed. “Merci à vous aussi, Madame.”
With a final coquettish smile, she turned and lumbered off, that awesome black, bustled posterior like the stern of a formidable dreadnought.
“Very well,” I said. “Will you explain exactly what is going on?”
Holmes resumed walking. “Surely by now you must know. The Viscount, the Persian, and Monsieur Mifroid plan to capture the Phantom during the performance. They know he will try to abduct Christine, and they will be waiting for him. Scores of policemen will be backstage, a fruitless approach which presumes that sufficient force, mere brute numbers, can overcome cunning and intelligence. There are already so many people backstage during a performance that a few more will make little difference. Mifroid is clever enough to post guards at the prompter’s box, the organ and battery rooms, but it will not matter. Erik knows their plans and will be ready for them.”
“How can you be so certain? Surely that nonsense about a bodiless, omniscient ghost...”
“You are quite right; it is nonsense. I reassured Madame Giry in a way which I knew she would understand. Come now, Henry, have you not noticed that the Phantom seemed singularly well informed of our activities? Remember the note waiting for us at the hotel after our first interview with the managers?”
“Baffling.”
“No, no, Henry! Do not be obtuse. Remember the maze within the maze?”
I frowned. “You are correct. I am stupid. There must be a secret passageway ending at the managers’ office, a listening post for Erik.”
“Very good, and the column in Box Five is hollow. Also, I said ‘obtuse,’ not ‘stupid.’”
“Either term is equally unflattering.”
“Not to my mind.”
My face felt warm. “These sneaky wretches! The Viscount is truly contemptible. It is not enough to have Christine, to take Erik’s one great love, but he must also capture and destroy his rival.”
“He thinks that is the only sure way to have Christine.”
“At least she is not a party to this scheme.”
Holmes shook his head. “No. Her spirits are flighty; she resembles a will-o’-the-wisp; but she would not willingly harm Erik. Madame Giry spoke the truth.”
“We must tell Christine.”
“No. I wish this business of theirs to proceed exactly as planned. Once Erik has Christine, we shall be able to track them down and speak with Erik.”
“But how?”
“Fear not, our extraordinary help is on the way! In fact we must return to the hotel. Watson has had more than enough time. By the way, it was unplanned, but I fear I am responsible for this turn of events. During our pleasant meeting with the Persian at Notre Dame, I told him to go to the Viscount or his brother if he wanted money. He has done just that.”
“Madame Giry was right. He is a treacherous devil.”
“And as I told her, do not fret, Henry. It should be delightful to see the conspirators’ plans upset.”
When we returned to the hotel, a telegram was waiting. Holmes eagerly ripped open the envelope, read the contents, then smiled. “Even as I said! Help will arrive shortly.”
“Toby, you mean?”
He gave me a curious look, then laughed. “You no doubt read my note before sending it out. And have you never heard of good Toby, who is quite my master at sniffing out criminals, as you so cleverly put it?”
“Never,” I said. “Should I have?”
“Watson recounts the assistance Toby gave us in the case of The Sign of Four. Much in the narrative is fiction or sensationalism, but Toby is real enough.”
“Knowing your contempt for Watson’s efforts I have scrupulously avoided his writings. Is this Toby truly so clever?”
“‘Clever’ is perhaps the wrong word. ‘Tenacious’ might be more apt. With the aid of this formidable detective we may at last follow the Phantom through the Opera.”
I frowned. “How can this be possible? I find it hard to believe anyone could best your efforts unless he had some preternatural powers.”
“Toby’s senses are far beyond yours or mine. By the way, Toby is a she. That particular detail Watson did not get correct, although his confusion is understandable, given her name.”
“A woman? Toby, this master sleuth, is a woman?”
“She is indeed female, but enough of these questions. You will meet her early tomorrow morning when she arrives in Paris.” By then we were nearly back to the hotel. “I believe they are serving dinner already, and my appetite has fully returned. A bottle of champagne is in order, and perhaps today some frogs’ legs, a delicacy sadly absent in London. As if our British frogs were not every bit the equal of their French counterparts! This will also be the last meal we shall directly charge to the Paris Opera, so it must be a fitting Gallic finale.”
Our meal was truly an extravaganza, and when we saw the amount scrawled on the check, we were both happy that Messieurs Moncharmin and Richard would, albeit indirectly, be paying so formidable a sum. By that point, my general outlook toward life had been greatly improved. Champagne has always been a weakness of mine, and upon that occasion I overdid it. Sherlock did not drink so much as I, but he certainly did not abstain.
The next morning at five, the Herculean task of rousing me from bed fell to Sherlock. Cajoling did not work, but the threat of pouring a pitcher of water upon me finally did the
trick. I sat, a weary lump of lead, while Holmes gazed eagerly out the cab window at the dark streets of Paris. The horse’s hooves seemed to clop upon my skull rather than the pavement.
On a Sunday afternoon, no place on earth is busier than a Paris train station; it teems with humanity, every class and occupation being represented. However, at five thirty in the morning, things are rather peaceful; one can (if one’s head is not wretched) take time to admire the architecture of the monumental interior of the Gare du Nord.
Holmes glanced at the schedule overhead, then headed toward the exit to the tracks. It had rained the previous night, and a white mist hung about the ground despite the shelter of the roof high above. Ornamental gas lights on iron poles shone all along the platform. We heard the distant whistle of a train. Soon the ground rumbled slightly, and the engine came steaming up, an old one that banged and clanged, its wheels slowing gradually. Holmes immediately started for the rear of the train, his walking stick tapping regularly, the rhythm another annoyance for my poor head.
“What class could Miss Toby have taken?” I asked.
“Last class,” Sherlock replied.
“What?”
The cars seemed to go on forever, but at last we saw the end of the train and a car near it without windows. Holmes rapped upon the wooden door with his stick. The door slid open, revealing a man with a blue hat and a blue jacket with brass buttons. “Eh bien, que voulez-vous?”
“Vous avez, je crois, une chienne pour moi,” Holmes said. “Une chienne de Londres.”
“Ah, oui, Monsieur! Attendez.”
“Une chienne?” I said. “Did he say une chienne?”
Holmes’s mouth twisted, and he gave a sharp laugh. “Yes, Henry, he did.”
“Do you want the crate, Monsieur?”
“No, and you need not fear. The dog is quite gentle.”
“You are certain of that, Monsieur?”
“Quite certain.”
“Yes, you are probably right. It is the little dogs, the tiny yappy ones of the rich ladies, that bite. The wound in my calf has not completely healed. I’d gladly have made sausages of the filthy little cur.”
The Angel of the Opera Page 21